


Once Upon a Weekend in Mexico

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Series: Once Upon a Weekend in Mexico [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Filming on Set, M/M, Multi, Road Trips, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-05
Updated: 2004-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elijah wonders if he's hallucinating when he sees Dom's shirt fly through the air, touch down on the stirred-up sand at his feet, but it's soon joined by Billy's, a crumpled up ball of cotton, so he knows he's not totally fucked up. And then there are hands on Elijah's chest, pulling apart the buttons of his shirt, stripping it down his back. Shoes are toed off, pockets emptied and belts undone, whipped off with cracking noises that make Billy smile and Dom jump and Elijah laugh, long and hard. He grabs Billy and Dom by the hand, leads the charge toward the sea, doesn't even slow down when his feet hit the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon a Weekend in Mexico

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as queenofalostart on LiveJournal.

"Dom, will you hurry up and get in the _fucking_ car?"

"All right, then! Easy on, Lij, I'm nearly there."

"Dom! You said that 10 minutes ago! And you don't need any more fucking CDs!"

_"Fine."_

*

"Lij, slow down, would ya?" Dom shifts in his seat, pulling his sweat-damp tee shirt from his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Elijah watches Dom squint in the bright sunlight, tracks the quick movements of long-fingered hands as the sun visor flips down, light and dark lines cutting across his face.

Elijah leans forward, grips the steering wheel tightly, and tries thinks about things that aren't light or dark or Dom. Doesn't take him very long to realize that there's not much else to think about. He sighs, purses his lips around his cigarette. "I'm not going that fucking fast." Even so, his eyes dart nervously to the rearview mirror, searching for something, anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly all the cars streaking past, the bumps and dips of the road, the mini-whirlwinds of dust crossing the median strip, they all seemed fraught with unending possibilities. "'Sides, it was your idea to leave this late."

"Oh, please," Dom says, hand to his lips, fingers rubbing over stubble Elijah guesses might be two or three days old.

Elijah swallows hard, takes a deep drag off the cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray already spilling with discarded butts. He remembers a time when he would have known that fact in a heartbeat, would have felt that prickly skin under his hands. He shakes his head, lips a little numb from the countless cigarettes he's chained-smoked since Irvine, desperate for something to do with his right hand besides laying it over Dom's. He pushes down that strange and stupid mourning, shakes another cigarette out the pack, lights it quickly, speaks around the first pull of air. "What? It was."

"Well, who slept all morning?" Dom's hand falls to the dashboard and he winces, the leather hot enough to burn.

"Yeah, whatever," Elijah retorts, weak and distracted and more than a little light-headed, his eyes focused on the dirty signs lining the side of the road. "Which exit is it again? I think we've passed it."

"We're not lost, you toff. We only just passed San Diego." Dom reaches for the map strewn across the back seat, consults it carefully. His rings glint, prisms of light staining the back of Elijah's eyelids, ghost images joined by the brilliant smile Dom flashes in Elijah's direction when he discovers they're "right on track, mate."

Elijah nods, shoulders and neck tight, arms tense, the faded tar of the road looming ahead and beneath them like a great big fucking line of ash.

*

Two hours and 100 miles later, and Elijah's cheeks are hot. It could be from the unforgiving sun hanging low on the horizon, pouring in and around the car, stifling even with the AC on high. But it's probably from the raw and suffocating excitement seeping out of Dom's every pore, energy crackling and filling the front seat with anticipation every time he moves, every time he fucking opens that surprisingly articulate mouth.

"Excited to see your Pip then, Merry?" Elijah says, trying to cut through the charged air surrounding Dom, who started to alternate between mad grins and quiet introspection since they passed the border into Baja.

A smile slashes across Dom's face, causing Elijah to smile back, out of habit. Instinct, even.

"Hell, yes, Lij," Dom replies, angling his body toward the driver's seat, back against the passenger door, leg bent and knee gently bumping against Elijah's thigh with the rumble of the road.

It's _that,_ that right _there,_ Elijah thinks, that casual physical contact that reminds him that he was the one who cut it off, that he was the one who said, "I can't do this anymore."

"It's been too long since the three of us were together, don't you think?" Dom continues with a laugh, just a quick bark of sound before his voice quiets again. "Bills is going mad, right? Had a few days in front of the blue screen, starting hallucinating about Treebeard." Dom waves his hands, lets them come to rest in his lap, fingers curling around the calf of his bent leg and of course Elijah's watching him instead of the road. Of course. "Guess he had to hang from a rope for _hours_ on end."

Elijah smiles even wider, decides to just enjoy Dom's continuous loop of chatter, the round sounds of his vowels. He laughs when it seems appropriate, nods appreciatively at intervals. In between the laughter and nodding and listening, he takes mental snapshots of the dark sunlight falling across their laps, filing away the waves of heat rising from the worn asphalt of the Mexican highway for later recollection, when he grows up into the sad and miserable bastard he's ready to become.

*

The car is still rolling into the narrow parking space when Dom shoulders the door open, his seatbelt flying off and clunking against the doorframe.

"Bills!" he cries, launching himself up the sidewalk on unsteady legs.

Elijah laughs from behind the steering wheel; watches as Dom nearly knocks Billy into a line of tastefully sculpted shrubbery. Slowly, he shuts off the car, quieting the AC and turning down the stereo before he takes the key from the ignition, a smooth twist and jerk. The engine dies, but Elijah can still feel the motion in his chest, the vibration of the road stuck in his arms and legs. The keys are heavy in his hand as he opens the door, stretches out and lets his feet touch down on Mexican soil. He waves in response to Billy's frantic gestures of welcome, smiles when he sees arms wrapped around shoulders, faces animated and mouths running at a clip.

"Billy!" Elijah calls out as the two come closer, laughing and stumbling over each other like mad drunken lunatics. Elijah gets caught up in a four-armed hug, hands gripping, knees bumping, chins pressed into necks.

"So, are you two ready for Rosarito?" Billy asks when they finally pull away from each other, his tongue tripping over the Spanish pronunciation easily, lips stretched into a smile and the fine skin around his eyes crinkling.

"Hell, yes, Bills!" Dom exclaims, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his still-damp tee shirt riding up to expose a strip of skin above his belt.

Elijah notices the movement, his eyes flicking down and up and back down quickly. Too late he notices that Billy notices him noticing, decides to just look away and bite the inside of his cheek instead of turning bright red. Which he's sure he does anyway.

His eyes reel back to them after a beat, and he realizes both Dom and Billy are looking at him expectantly, so he blurts out something in the affirmative, fumbles for another cigarette, sparks the lighter and breathes. His vision is blurry, soft focus fading into blinding white at the edges. But he can see Dom - he's smiling, one hand pressed against the back of Billy's neck, fingers tangling in the hair grown long for Bonden. Elijah drags his eyes away, tamps down the sensory memory of those same hands on _his_ neck, in _his_ hair, reminds himself that nothing's changed but him.

"We've missed you, Billy," Elijah says, means it even though he chose his words carefully. He feels his muscles soften in the weak heat of the Baja dusk, the tension in his shoulders finally dissipating. He looks at Billy, reminds himself that Billy is _his_ friend, too, and a good one, at that.

"Well, great!" Billy exclaims, his hands warm as he pulls them toward his apartment, though the front door and up a flight of stairs. "Let's go tie a ribbon on it, shall we?"

*

"Billy, do you have to sing in every movie you're in?" Elijah laughs, his bottle of beer against his lips, gulping down the pale ale with harsh swallows. He's struggling to keep up, but he's already one drink down, unwilling to chance the tequila shots Dom tried to talk him into back at Billy's apartment when they still sported empty stomachs.

Musical laughter, bordering on cackling glee fills the air around the table and Elijah knows he misses this, misses Billy, misses when life was simple, but it never really was simple, but nostalgia is a fucking liar and at least Elijah knows it.

Billy slaps down his empty glass and motions for another round, leaning forward, conspiratorially. "Well, I might do," he replies, eyes up and thoughtful. "But this one wasn't as fun as the one Dom and I did together for Rings. Isn't that right, Dommeh?"

Dom nods, picks a wedge of lime from between his lips with great relish, bits of pulp clinging to his lip. "Yeah, that was a great one, Billy." The ravaged lime sits on a napkin and Elijah can't take his eyes off it for a moment, thinking something mostly indescribable and entirely naughty. "But this one is some old sailing ditty, ain't it?"

Billy shakes his head gravely, distracted momentarily by the waitress and the accompanying fresh beer. "It's a sea shanty, my dear Dommeh." He sips at his brew, pushes the other drinks across the table toward Elijah and Dom. "And it goes like this." Billy clears his throat, and before Elijah can blink, Billy's on his chair leading the bar in a rousing rendition of some strangely familiar tune about saying good-bye.

*

"Farewell and adieu, to you Spanish ladies…" Elijah sings under his breath, propped up snugly between Billy and Dom, their hips pressing into his, their relatively uniform height making his drunken impression of walking - one foot in front of the other - quite easy.

Dom's laughing about some story of Billy's, their faces bright in Elijah's peripheral vision. Elijah laughs because Dom is laughing, because Billy is just _there,_ period, because he's happy, because they're together, finally together.

"Too long, Bills," Elijah slurs, giggles at just about everything. "Too long."

"Aye," is the reply. "Too long, Elijah."

They finally find Billy's apartment, tripping through the front door and up the stairs. Elijah's sits on the couch with a great "oomph!", his head spinning and stomach flipping end over end. After beer number seven – or was it eight? – Elijah gave up trying to match his friends drink for drink, a lesson he thought he learned long ago, and took to munching on the greasy chips spilled from shiny cellophane bags bought hastily from the bodega up the street in a half-assed attempt to sober him up.

Elijah feels a tugging on his feet, hands on his legs, looks down to see Billy wrestling with his shoes, pulling them off and passing them to Dom, who deposits them with a crash next to Elijah's suitcase. Gentle, but insistent fingers push him down onto the couch, laying him out with legs outstretched. An explosion of color fills his vision, a blanket weighing down on his chest at it comes to rest covering him from tip of toe to end of chin. Soft hands on the back of his neck, and an even softer pillow under his head, soothing words muttered, hair smoothed from his face and lights flicking off.

"Where you sleepin', Dommie?" He wants to ask, but doesn't want to know the answer. So, he doesn't, just murmurs "Good night," tacks on a "darlings" for good measure.

Moments pass, short or long, Elijah's not sure, Billy's clear tenor hovering at the edge of his consciousness. He works hard to hold onto the sound, to merge it into his sleeping wakefulness, letting it wrap him up in ribbons, warm and moving and just fucking awesome.

_"For we've received orders to sail for Olde England, we hope in a short while to see you again…."_

*

Rattling glass and creaking floors wake Elijah up at some ungodly hour that's really probably fairly decent, like eight or nine AM, wind howling like a bitch in heat outside. He eases off of the couch, approaches the window with care, cracks the blind for a brief second only to wince at the flat white light reflecting off the overcast sky.

He groans, stumbles for the bathroom, takes a much-needed piss, and swallows down a handful of Advil. The toilet flushes noisily as he rubs his face, takes note of a bruise beginning to form on his upper arm. Back in the living room, his jeans are unbuttoned and sliding down his hips. He kicks them off as he strips his shirt over his head, and lets his clothes puddle on the floor at his feet. The artificially cooled air of the apartment is welcome on his over-heated skin, hangover-induced sweat drying and stretching his skin taunt over his bones. He stands there for a long while, swaying slightly on his unsteady legs, feeling more than slightly nauseous, finally crawling back into his makeshift cocoon, the wool blanket warm and soft and inviting and only just slightly itchy.

*

The second time Elijah wakes up, he feels a presence in the room, all muffled swears and banged shins. The muted clinking of crockery assaulting his ears, pulling him fully awake.

"You'll wake the wee one, Dommeh." Billy's whispering – well, at least he thinks he's whispering, but the words crawl right inside Elijah's ears and bang around for a bit.

"He's not awake!" Dom hisses back, slurping something quite noisily – tea, Elijah guesses. Light, with three sugars. "He'd sleep through World War III."

"I'm 'wake, you wankers." Elijah groans, stretches, feels the wool of the blanket scratch over his bare chest, is only slightly surprised to wake up mostly naked in someone's living room.

"Lij, how many times do we have to tell you?" Dom enters the room bearing two mugs, smiling like the morning person Elijah knows he's not. He pushes Elijah's feet out of the way, collapsing onto the sofa with an easy grace. "You're not British, my dear, so stick to your American curse words, like 'asshole' or 'son of a bitch.' That has a nice ring to it, doesn't Billy?" He offers Elijah a plain white mug filled with a dark liquid, which Elijah accepts.

"Shut the fuck up, _dude,_ " he shoots back, voice raspy from sleep, but clipped with hung-over annoyance. Contentment is fucking wafting off of Dom and it's driving Elijah fairly fucking insane. He sips the coffee, nearly spits it back out when he feels the burn of alcohol on the back of his throat. "What the fuck is this?!"

Billy's laughing again, a thick sound. He pops his head around the corner, brandishes his own cup, a slice of toast between his lips. "Hair of the dog, Lij!"

Dom's laughing now, too, fingers against his smiling mouth, eyes on Elijah's face, gaze hovering over pursed lips. Elijah feels Dom's hand on his foot under the blanket, forces himself not to kick that smile right off Dom's face. He knows his mouth is burning, tries to tell himself it's from the scotch, but knows better when he feels the flush spread down to his chest, causing Dom's gaze to flit down, fingers tightening around the arch of Elijah's foot, eyes amused and a bit calculating.

"I hate you both," Elijah grumps, pulling his foot away from Dom's hand, settling back on his pillow and abandoning his spiked coffee on the end table. He looks around, takes in the room slowly, still bleary-eyed. "Where the fuck are my cigarettes?"

*

The weather keeps them trapped indoors, tripping over each other and their belongings in the small living room, watching Spanish soap operas with the sound turned down, providing their own voice tracks when the mood strikes.

When the heavily made-up crying actors and actresses are replaced with overly earnest news anchors, the television is flipped off and Billy's small stereo flipped on. Sigur Ros sings about who-the-fuck-knows-what as Billy attempts to figure out how to make dinner for three with a half a loaf of bread and one can of tomato soup.

Elijah smokes a cigarette as he watches Dom make yet another pot of tea, and thinks Jonsi is singing, no _fucking wailing,_ "You sigh and I die," over and over and over again. At least that's what it sounds like, but who the fuck knows, you know? Elijah coughs, flicks the ash down the sink, stays quiet, and Dom sighs and asks if he's alright for the fortieth time that afternoon. Elijah starts to think that dude from Iceland may have been onto something.

*

An hour later they're a couple of pounds of hamburger and a large yellow onion richer, thanks to a kind next-door neighbor willing to trade beer for food. Elijah wrestles the food from Billy, pushes him out of the kitchen and toward the living room where Dom is sorting through CDs and bitching about Billy's stereo. Elijah fries the meat and onion up in a battered pan, tipping the thick tomato soup into the spluttering maelstrom, spatters of grease burning his arms and making the countertop slick. He toasts the bread in the oven, filling the apartment with a thick yeasty smell reminiscent of Saturday morning breakfast and endless hours of cartoons.

"Sloppy Joes, gentlemen," he announces, lining up the toasted slices on heavy blue plates pulled down from the cupboard, ladling the burger mixture over the browned bread, quite proud of himself for this culinary achievement.

Dom grabs up a plate, no questions asked, digging a fork in and eating hungrily, still standing, hovering by the window, his eyes trained on the weakening storm outside. Billy leans against the refrigerator, his fork poking at the red concoction, eyes full of questions. Elijah waves him on, exasperated, the spatula dripping grease as he gestures. "Just eat it, you great Scottish lump."

*

"So, what are we going to do tonight?" Dom asks, laying his scraped-clean plate on the coffee table. Elijah busies himself with his own plate so he doesn't have to watch palms rubbing on thighs, fingers flexing and pulling, raised eyebrows, or kidney-shaped smirks.

"Oh, well," Billy starts, his plate clattering to meet Dom's. "Now that the rain's stopped and I don't have call for another two days, I fancied going on a bit of a bender." He turned and smiled, fixing his eyes on Elijah. "Perhaps a bit of a pull even? Find Lij here a nice set of local lips in return for his gracious cooking?" Elijah feels a smile get pulled out of him by the sheer force of Billy's green-eyed will, thinks he should at least _try_ to hate Billy on principle, because _he's_ fucking Dom and Elijah isn't, but Elijah can't, reminds himself that Billy is his friend and that "this," whatever "this" is, was _his choice._ Elijah's choice. The Elijah who's going to grow up to be a sad and miserable bastard. Remembers the feel of his mouth shaping the words, "I can't share you with the world anymore."

"All right, then, Lij?" Billy continues, feigning obliviousness pretty well, and for a second, Elijah gets dizzy with euphoria, thinks maybe he's still drunk from the night before. But the burn on the back of his throat tastes of tomato and onions, not fizzy beer.

So, he nods, tongue darting out to lick his fork clean before his plate joins the others haphazardly stacked on the table. "Sounds good."

*

Elijah's surprised by the ridiculous amount of clothing Dom has managed to stuff into a rather small suitcase. He sits on Billy's bed, eyes dazzled by the colorful shirts scattered across its width, tangled scarves sitting on the pillow, shoes heaped on the floor. He watches Dom pull off his shirt, darts his eyes away from the exposed skin made harder and leaner by more and more frequent yoga sessions, curses himself for being such a fucking idiot. His palms itch, and he nervously shakes a cigarette loose, part of him knowing he's not jonesing for the nicotine.

He looks back down at the bed and realizes that he probably shouldn't be all that surprised about the clothing strewn all over the room. After all, he's seen the inside of Dom's closet, helped him unpack bags and boxes of sweet-smelling items, some expensive, others bargain, both of them ripping off price tags with their teeth and chucking the plastic and paper wrappings into the kitchen trashcan that's always in danger of overflowing because the maid only comes once a week.

The shower in the next room rattles to a halt and Billy's brogue carries clear through the closed door. "Dommeh, please try not to scandalize the poor Mexican lads and lassies with your choice of attire, if you can manage it." What sounds like furious toweling off muffles feet squeaking over wet tile, drops of water falling noisily down the drain as Billy moves around in the small bathroom.

Elijah laughs and Dom splutters, actually splutters, face red and lips pouting, his hands on his hips, and Elijah decides it's quite amusing, when you think about it. He laughs some more, falling back onto the bed, pushing the Technicolor wardrobe aside to make room. Dom's hands are sorting through socks and neatly folded underwear, and Elijah feels the glare before he sees it, bright eyes with a touch of promised retaliation. He's relieved when the glare softens, and Dom's eyes dull - just a tad, just down to room temperature – as he surveys his spoils.

"Bills, jealousy really doesn't become you. You know that I will scandalize who I please." Dom's fingers still on a tee shirt, shockingly yellow cotton chased with red satin. He holds up to Elijah, tilts his head, looking for approval. Elijah gives it with an amused nod, squeezing a pair of balled up socks in his fist, still surprised how things that fly out of Dom's mouth would sound campy or affected coming from anyone else. But not from Dom – even when he's laying on the charm.

Dom smiles and whips the tee shirt over his bare chest, affects a very serious look about the eyes, preens at Elijah's, making him wonder just how transparent he really is, wishes he was just a bit more opaque at times. "What's the point of going out if not to scandalize the viewing public?"

*

Billy signals to a waitress, holds up three fingers before turning back to Dom. "I really can't believe you actually paid good money, _real money,_ for that top." Billy's hands dig deep down in the pockets of his dark jeans, shoulders raised and pulling his button-down open at the neck.

Elijah finds himself marveling at the nut-brown color of Billy's skin, thinks it looks like it's been stained by the Mexican sun. It's not until Billy's laugh fills his ears that he realizes he's said it out loud, sees Billy's cheeks color and feels Dom poke him in the side.

Must be those tequila shots Billy insisted on before they stepped foot out of the house, right after Dom insisted Elijah wear _this_ particular shirt with _these_ particular pants. Oh, and those shoes. And he did it, of course, all of it, including wearing the ridiculous stripy blue button-down that he hates, doesn't even remember packing, but knows that Dom thinks it looks "wicked."

Before Elijah can think even more about what a fucking dork he is when he's drunk and maudlin and borderline cranky about his weird self-enforced celibacy, their cute little waitress with dangling earrings is disappearing into the crush of people, three menus in her hands. Billy presses a hand to Elijah's shoulder, pushes him deeper into the smoky restaurant. He tastes the rich second-hand cigar smoke wafting off the dudes at the bar and wonders where Billy's other hand is, actually jerks around to look, finds he can't because of the gentle pressure on his shoulder.

"Just follow the pretty lady, Lij," Billy whispers, distracted as he sidesteps tables and chairs and the melee of people clustered around the bar. "I've got Dom, don't worry."

*

Billy orders for them, fingers pointing to accented words on the laminated menu, flashing a round of smiles at the waitress as she writes down the order on a fat pad of pulpy paper clutched in her fist.

"Un momento, por favor," she says, making for the bar - to procure their drinks, Elijah hopes. His throat is a bit dry and his mouth waters for something. Water, beer, tequila, saliva, come. He doesn't really know anymore, and he's trying really hard not to care. At least not now, when Dom's calling after the waitress, singing, "Farewell and adieu to you Spanish ladies!" with a thick accent, rattling the neatly aligned condiments with his hands.

*

Their food arrives, along with pitchers of beer and stacks of napkins. Forks are ignored and they dig in with their hands, licking and sucking sauces with names that Elijah can't even pronounce off their fingers and palms. Pitcher after pitcher of sweet beer are poured out, followed by even-sweeter-tasting tequila sloshed into scratched shot glasses and tossed back with loud hurrahs.

At some point, they end up outside, taking up residence at a small table in the corner of the outdoor café, knees pressed against thighs in the dark, more beer holding fort on the table. There's mariachi music and dancing, beautiful women with colorful dresses and fresh flowers in their hair plying Billy up out of his seat with their laughing smiles. Russell Crowe walks by, and Elijah looks at Dom, opens his eyes wide and raises an eyebrow in surprise. Dom laughs, signals for another round, whispers in the waitresses ear when she comes back, smiles on both of their faces as she walks away.

"What was that about?" Elijah asks, snagging a Corona from the mess of brews left on the table, pushing the lime down into the bottle, his thumb firmly pressed over the top as he tipped it upside down.

Dom already has the lime in his mouth, usually never bothering to shove it in the bottle until he'd given it a good suck. The green fruit pops out of his lips, and he presses it past the rim with his tongue. It slides down the curved neck of the bottle easily and Elijah finds himself laughing, drunkenly realizing that yes, indeed, he was staring at Dom's fucking mouth. Again.

"What?" Dom asks, innocence tossed aside as his fingers slide against the condensation filming the glass bottle. "She's a beautiful girl. I was simply asking if I could buy her a drink."

Elijah nods, hums his mirth, takes another drink, tips the bottle toward Dom after he pulls down a large gulp. "You sure that's all you asked her? Might not do to upset your host, you know."

Dom's eyes darken, just for a second, and if Elijah had blinked, he would have missed it, but he didn't blink, he saw it all. Then the shadowed look is gone, but Dom's fingers are frozen still on the bottle, drops of water dripping down the sides and pooling on the table. "Billy's not like that, Lij," he says, words that Elijah expected, so he's already shrugging and gulping down another sip. "And you know that." Now those were words Elijah _wasn't_ ready to hear, wishes he _was_ staring at Dom's mouth when he said them, but instead, he was staring at the water in the distance, the ocean crashing and the horizon burning.

*

"I think I'd like to be a mariachi, you know?" He's slurring his words, but he doesn't care. Dom's run ahead, shouting something about a lizard, but Billy's shoulder is nice and comfortable, so Elijah doesn't mind. "But not like El, you know." Billy's neck smells like lime and spicy perfume and a bit like salt. Elijah wonders if it tastes the same, darts his tongue out, the tip playing over the line of muscle right there. No, _there._ Billy jumps a little bit, breath pulled in a rush, but doesn't say anything, just tightens his hold on Elijah's shoulders. "You know, El? They're making a new movie with him, you know." Elijah thinks he might be purring - if he knew how to, that is – his lips up near Billy's ear now, doing what might be called babbling. "With Johnny Depp, 'member, he was a pirate with Orli." His tongue accentuates the last syllable with a quick dip into the hollow below Billy's ear, the air leaving his lungs in a whoosh, pushing Billy's head to the side with his forehead, opening his mouth to kiss or suck whatever skin he can, feeling willing to do anything, as long as it's something he's sure to regret in the morning.

"Come on, you guys!" Dom's voice cuts through the haze, and Elijah groans, just a little bit, lets his head fall back into the safe zone of Billy's cotton-covered shoulder. "We're nearly there!"

*

"Nearly there" was really more like "Down this road, then down this one, hang a left at the post box." Elijah concentrates on steadying himself on the stucco walls of the buildings lining the narrow streets, Dom and Billy playing some bizarre form of tag around the parked cars and motorbikes. Broken street lamps create dips of darkness and light as they walk toward the sound of the sea, the ground becoming increasingly more sandy.

Elijah sees Billy disappear around a corner up ahead, Dom hot on his heels and brandishing a handful of sparkling sand, shouting something about…something. Elijah can't tell. His shoulder to the building, his shirt pulling back from the friction, causing pressure against his throat. He turns the corner, sees only darkness for a second, his shoes scratching on the mixture of cobblestone and sand beneath his feet. He hears…something. A groan, a soft smack. He squints his eyes, focuses just hard enough to see sepia-toned fingers with circles of silver buried in shaggy hair, open mouths and white teeth on pink tongues. Kisses that are slow, unhurried, like it was the fucking first day of the rest of their lives. He tries to move closer, out of some bizarre sense of voyeuristic pleasure that he knows he's never been able to get a handle on, probably never will, and manages to catch the toe of his shoe on the uneven street, plunging to his knees with a startled "Oh!"

Arms are around him in a split second, bodies that are firm and soft all at the same time, lifting and pressing up against his sides. His knees hurt a little and he's sure he'll discover scrapes in the morning, but right now, this very second, he feels safe and warm and, _fuck,_ loved, and it occurs to him that in this monsoon of emotions, he's not feeling the jealousy that's been much too common as of late, that's pissed him off more than he can say because talking about it for too long makes his hands shake. He's also not feeling the uncontrollable rage that usually pops up, too, mostly after smelling perfume on Dom's discarded clothes or finding little crumpled up pieces of paper with phone numbers with Hills exchanges scribbled in masculine script thrown away in the bathroom waste bin.

"All right there, Lij?" Dom asks, for the hundredth time that day, perhaps even the millionth time this year.

One arm around Billy's shoulders and the other around Dom's waist and Elijah smiles, really fucking smiles. His palms don't itch and he _gets it_ for once, for the first time maybe, feels fucking drunk and alive and he loves it. Just fucking loves it.

So he tells them, with his fingers digging into their skin and his mouth moving, letting the words trip out. "Yeah, I think I am."

*

The beach is colder than Elijah expects, colder than they all expect, the waters of the really fucking deep sea dredged up on shore by the earlier storm. Tangles of kelp and all manner of sea life are strewn across the beach and Elijah is reminded of the explosion of Dom's clothing, spread all over Billy's room, covering the bed, a riot of color and texture.

Elijah wonders if he's hallucinating when he sees Dom's shirt fly through the air, touch down on the stirred-up sand at his feet, but it's soon joined by Billy's, a crumpled up ball of cotton, so he knows he's not totally fucked up. And then there are hands on Elijah's chest, pulling apart the buttons of his shirt, stripping it down his back. Shoes are toed off, pockets emptied and belts undone, whipped off with cracking noises that make Billy smile and Dom jump and Elijah laugh, long and hard. He grabs Billy and Dom by the hand, leads the charge toward the sea, doesn't even slow down when his feet hit the water.

*

They sprawl side by side on the beach, water trickling and pooling and dripping, chests heaving with exertion. Goosebumps pull the skin on Elijah's arms taunt, and he runs his waterlogged fingers over his elbows, pushes ragged nails into his funny bone until it hurts. Dom's on his left, Billy on his right, and they're reaching over him, hands trailing sand all over Elijah's chest, the ghost of their shared touches pressing him down, prying his eyelids open, taking his breath. He watches as they kiss, speaking the same slow, unhurried language from before, one that Elijah wishes he was fucking fluent in, but he was always crap at languages. Billy and Dom break apart, just enough for the moonlight to seep between them, a crack of brightness that highlights their shiny lips and Elijah's saying, "Oh, oh," over and over again and he can't seem to stop it, so Dom stops it for him, fingers splayed on his chest, bits of sand cutting into his skin.

"Lij?" Dom asks, his voice a rumble undercut by water splashing and crashing, asking a question Elijah doesn't feel like answering. At least not right now, not now when everything is warm and soft and…pillowed, maybe.

"Lij." This time a statement, not a question, and it's tinged with a Scottish accent.

Elijah looks up at Billy, follows a drop of water as it trails down Billy's neck onto his chest, stopping just below his collarbone. The bead of water hovers there, reflects the silver light from the night sky, and Elijah reaches out to touch it, smear it across Billy's skin, fingers coming to rest on his shoulder, cupping it lazily.

Elijah licks his lips, his tongue rasping over the salt-slick skin. "What?" A deep breath, a deep shuddering breath, and he can feel a hand move up his side, knuckles brushing over his ribs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh on the underside of his arm, thinks it's Billy, but it could be Dom.

"Lij." It's Dom, definitely Dom this time, with gentle fingertips on Elijah's neck and his voice soft and deadly serious. "I thought you said…you said you couldn't share me."

Billy inhales sharply, and a small part of Elijah thrills at the fact that Billy didn't know, that Dom didn't tell. That some things were just theirs and no one else's.

The knowledge makes him bold as he meets Dom's steely gaze, tightens his hold on Billy's shoulder, dragging him closer, sea salt stinging the underside of his nails. "That's not what I said."

Dom huffs, elbows in the sand as he turns over, one leg draping itself neatly over Elijah's, pinning it to the shifting sand. "Yes it was!" His anger shows in the line of his back, muscles moving, tightening near his shoulders.

"Dominic," Billy growls, threatens really, and Elijah likes how Dom's eyes cast away under Billy's glare, color rising on his cheeks and shoulders relaxing as he takes a deep breath.

Elijah waits a beat, takes in the power play coursing over and through him, thinks it's kind of hot in that same strange way he thought peeping on his two best friends making out was hot. Now they're both staring at him and he realizes he should probably say something, explain himself. So he does, best he can. "No, it wasn't. I said I couldn't share you with the world." He lifts his other hand, the one not busy with tracing the patterns of goosebumps on Billy's neck, and lets his fingers graze over Dom's mouth, down to his chin to feel the prickly hairs he wondered about just yesterday, ages ago, really, lets the memories come. It's probably four days worth of stubble, he thinks, smiles.

Dom leans into the touch, lips pressing against the thin skin of Elijah's wrist. "Right, then, well?"

The words tickle, blunt hairs splintering his veins, but Elijah doesn't pull away, instead wraps his hand around the back of Dom's neck, pulls him closer and closer still, until their foreheads are touching. With a sideways look and tug, he's got Billy there, too, their shallow breaths shared, hair plastered to their foreheads, waiting. Waiting for Elijah.

Elijah smiles, closes his eyes, feels like he's falling inward and stretching outward, a great big whooshing feeling that he knows he'll forever equate with this night, with Mexico and tequila and sand and perpetual dusk stabbed through with blinding sunlight, the taste of lime and the salt on Billy's skin, the bite of Dom's beard on the inside of his arm.

"This isn't the world, Dom. It's Billy." A shuddering breath and a kiss pressed to his cheek, lips dragging to his jaw and he doesn't know who it came from, smiles when he realizes that the majority of him, of Elijah - the one that doesn't want to grow up to be a sad, miserable bastard - simply doesn't care. Or that's the thing, he does care, he cares so fucking much and it feels so fucking good, he just lets go, gives into it, lets himself fall as far as he can, wraps himself up in the feeling.

"Oh." A kiss on his temple and he knows it's Dom, feels the scratch of stubble.

"Hmm." That's Billy, tasting the skin on the underside of his jaw.

He smiles, knows this will probably hurt like hell in the morning, but maybe, just fucking maybe, it won't. "Yeah."


End file.
